The Illusionist's Apprentice Page 6

  Josiah’s body trembled slightly. He sat up, still squinting at her.

  Muffled sounds of music floated in, cutting through the chasm of silence that had fallen between them. She waited. Listening to the sounds of jubilant applause from the auditorium. Wishing things were different somehow, that silence wasn’t the one thing they could share.

  Silence and pain.

  “Why are you helping me?” he accused, his whisper coarse.

  “Because we both love Charlotte and will do anything to protect her.” Wren swallowed hard and looked away, casting the momentary rise of emotion in her throat to the wayside.

  “If anything’s true, I suppose that is.”

  Of course. He had two daughters, but only one needed anything from him.

  “It is. I’m still your daughter.” She took the linen towel from him, laid it on the side of the cot, then headed for the door. “And unfortunately for us both, that fact will never change.”

  CHAPTER 4

  JANUARY 15, 1927

  BIJOU THEATRE

  WASHINGTON STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “Undercommit offstage, then overdeliver every time you’re on it.”

  If Wren closed her eyes long enough, she could hear her mentor’s words of advice ringing in her ears. She drew in a deep breath, letting the memory of them sink deep.

  “No matter what’s occurred—especially if you find yourself in a fix that you can’t see your way out of—the crowd must walk away believing you did exactly what you said you would, without any break in the story. Make them believe it.”

  Wren stood backstage at the Bijou Theatre, the lively tapping of an index finger against her crossed arms the only indication she was energized before a show. She waited now in the fallen darkness of the stage wing, peeking out from behind the drawn curtain.

  As she did today, Wren always looked to ensure her assigned man had been placed in the audience—the one who’d been hired and coached before the show. Everything else was a mystery to him, save for the fact that he’d be seated in the fourth row, third seat in from the center aisle. And when Wren called for a volunteer from the audience, the man knew his pay depended upon standing up and doing exactly what he was told to do once on her stage.

  Irina informed Wren moments before that she’d selected a man with a gray bowler hat and round, wire-rimmed spectacles sitting on the edge of a hawk-like nose. Wren couldn’t miss him. Or she wasn’t supposed to miss him. But as of yet, he hadn’t found his seat—even though the band was cuing up to signal showtime was drawing near.

  The lights flickered against the soaring ceiling vaults of the Bijou, stirring theater guests from their pockets of conversation in private boxes or along the aisles. Wren stood tall, quiet as always, watching as elegantly dressed ladies and tuxedo-clad gentlemen found their seats as the lights dimmed across the balcony and the main floor.

  The curtain would part in a matter of moments.

  Where is he?

  Wren turned, taking a quick inventory of her show props behind the curtain, making sure everything was in order. A spindle-legged parlor chair and a crystal vase were center stage, waiting for her opening act. A tall wardrobe with an affixed gold-gilt mirror she used for one of her vanishing tricks was off to the side, with an oblong table holding various handcuffs and chains with locks positioned behind it. A pulley and wooden frame more than ten feet high was shrouded in darkness behind her—the contraption that would hoist her in the air and drop her into a large glass-walled tank for her final act.

  She squeezed her palms, making certain she could feel the clicks of the tiny metal files taped under her gloves—counting one in each hand. If she dropped one or an edge snagged in the fabric of her costume, it could spell disaster when she had to pick a lock. It had happened only once, and she managed to play it off without notice, but since then she left nothing to chance and doubled up on everything.

  A small disturbance erupted from the back of the auditorium, drawing her attention to the part in the curtain.

  Wren peered out. A slew of press had arrived—bolstered by a wave of ready flashbulbs and chattering reporters who’d trained their eyes on the stage. They swarmed in a pack that floated out from the cover of the balcony and down the center aisle, not stopping until they’d settled in the front rows.

  Every muscle in her body tensed as the press came into view.

  What are they all doing here? We’ve never had this many press at a show.

  She had to consider that they weren’t lined up merely to see a good show. Gut instinct told her it was the scene at Mount Auburn Cemetery all over again, except this time the venue was a plush theater with gilt ceilings and chandeliers instead of the wide-open sky and a main act who wasn’t after a media frenzy to infect the show. After Victor Peale’s dramatic death, the newspapers were making as many broad assumptions as they could, and now they flocked to vaudeville for their next story.

  It appeared as if her show had sold out for a reason—and not particularly the one she’d hoped for. The proprietor must have saved back seats, then let the lot in like cattle in a corral.

  The final shimmer of a symbol sounded offstage and the band hushed, done tuning their instruments. Ready or not, it was showtime.

  Wren closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath.

  She opened them again, feeling that on this night, the stakes were much higher. She banished an uncharacteristic wave of fear with a shrug, shaking it off the shoulders of her tuxedo jacket without another thought. She drew in another deep breath, ready to emerge with the melody the band was poised to play.

  One more glance at the audience before we go. She parted the edge of the curtain with her index finger. Just to make sure my man is in place . . .

  He’d removed his hat, but Mr. Spectacles was indeed seated in the fourth row, third chair from the center aisle. Normally relief would wash over her that all things were in place, but Wren’s heart sank a measure when an even bigger distraction came into view.

  There sat another patron, parked in the row directly behind her planted man.

  His was a familiar face, framed by wheat-blond hair and the same set jaw and sharp blue eyes she’d had to contend with in her library just days before. Now those eyes were actively engaged in surveying every inch of the Bijou’s elegant auditorium—including the stage.

  Her stage.

  The one she was poised to step out on in a matter of seconds.

  Any moment the curtain would part, and the last man who stood between her and a public thrashing—maybe even the end of her career—was none other than Agent Elliot Matthews.

  “Collar still choking you?” Connor ceased crowd-gazing and mouthed the words with unfiltered amusement from across the lobby alcove.

  Elliot hadn’t even noticed, but he must have tugged at his tuxedo collar one time too many. The incessant nagging of his bow tie forced Elliot to pull at it every few seconds. Add that to the fact his shoes were straight-out-of-the-box tight, and he was losing the battle of comfort from head to foot. Still, he shook his head and tipped his chin to the crowd, directing them back to the task at hand.

  Connor rolled his eyes in reluctant submission and slipped back into the throngs of people gathered around them.

  Though the scene threatened to twist knots in Elliot’s stomach, instincts won out so that both he and Connor had donned their best suits and melted into the crowd at the Bijou’s Saturday headlining show.

  It reminded Elliot that he hated being trussed up.

  That he’d once fled his family’s world of operas and high-society shows for good reason. But everything told him that Wren Lockhart could be the key to their rapidly ballooning death investigation, and if he wanted to get to the bottom of it, some sacrifices would have to be made. She entertained a certain measure of fame on the vaudeville circuit, and in order to enlist her help, they’d have to understand her world.

  Gents scooted in with diamond-frosted flappers hanging on their arm
s. Guests chattered as they waltzed by, anticipating the delights of the sold-out Wren Lockhart show. Gleeful as the evening looked to be, they were too interested in their own world to notice what Elliot had seen happening—that a man had been pulled from the crowd by a mysterious woman with cropped brown hair and striking green eyes.

  The man’s presence was inconsequential to the patrons in the lobby. He’d appeared clueless as Irina had directed him to an alcove beneath the grand staircase.

  Elliot had looked for Connor, who’d noticed the exchange, too, and locked gazes across the lobby. They’d both seen the man emerge from the hall and weave into the crowd, moving in unnoticed. Almost, that is. They had but to stop him and offer a fistful of dollars more than Ms. Lockhart to find out why her business manager had been slinking around the shadows of the lobby.

  Elliot sat in the row behind the man now, in view of the fact he’d been hired as a plant in the audience. That meant he wanted to stay close-by. It ensured Ms. Lockhart would see him from the stage.

  Connor slipped into the seat next to him and immediately began to fidget, tapping his feet and drumming fingers against his knee.

  “Would you pipe down?” Elliot nudged Connor with his elbow. “It’s not that bad. If I can put up with this collar, then you can sit still for five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, Elliot. But I told you I’d rather be chasing rumrunners down a dusty back road outside the city than to be here, hamming it up with ‘polite’ society. My only passing interest is that one of these hoity-toities might have a single daughter they’re looking to pawn off on a lug. Though I’m not sure how I’d like being tied to an apron string, even if it is threaded in gold, you know?”

  “Well, you’re on the clock, so I’d say you won’t have to worry about it tonight. And I had to fork over all my cash for these seats—”

  “Which I suppose I owe you for now,” Connor cut in.

  “It was a sold-out show and it cost me a pretty penny to get us in here tonight. The least you could do is pretend you’re enjoying yourself, if only to keep up appearances.”

  “I told you.” Connor gave a mock shiver to his shoulders. “I’m all nerves around these people. You might be used to these high-society dames, but I’m not partial.”

  Elliot rolled his eyes. “You don’t mind a spray of bullets from a tommy gun, yet you worry about a bunch of middle-aged ladies in opera dresses. Seems logical.”

  “Logical or not—” He huffed, tipping his head to pan the seating behind them. “See that? A full balcony that wraps around and only a handful of exits in this entire auditorium. I’d have to climb over about a hundred people to chase a crook out any one of them. This place is a rattrap.”

  “Who’s going to cause a disturbance in the middle of an upscale theater?” Elliot scanned the stage, looking over all angles. “I’ll handle how to get us backstage after the show. You just keep your eyes peeled and take in as much as you can. I need you to be our eyes and ears tonight.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week, boss. That redhead’s a pretty thing. Odd, but pretty.” Connor tilted his eyebrows in the direction of the stage and the performer who would soon grace it. “Normally I wouldn’t want to work around the clock like you seem to enjoy, but in this case . . . don’t mind if I do.”

  The evening may have been too much for Connor to entertain unless there was a female to gaze at, but Elliot took the rest of the scene in—from the ornate wainscoting around the auditorium to the length and lighting of the stage to the band in the orchestra pit below.

  Everything is professional.

  Detailed.

  Controlled . . .

  Exactly what he would have expected for a Wren Lockhart show. Save for one thing: Elliot had thrown a wrench in her plans, and if she wasn’t keen to it yet, she soon would be. Wren would tell him more with her response to his presence than she could with words.

  The lights dimmed and the crowd quieted, giving way for the band to play a rendition of the Original Memphis Five’s popular song “Fireworks,” the ceiling vaults echoing the jazzy tune out over the audience. The tune seemed to carry the curtain with it, parting the thick cascade of red velvet down the middle, revealing a figure standing under a solitary spotlight.

  Wren looked down at the tips of her boots, fiery wavy hair outlining her visage. Trouser- and boot-clad legs were crossed one over the other, one toe tapping in time with the music. Her crimson tuxedo jacket was framed in the overhead light, her arms tucked behind her back. The rest of the brass came to life, cutting through the welcome of applause with their song. She lifted her head and went to work then, ushering the auditorium full of guests into the depths of her world.

  Wren moved to one side and revealed a delicate, spindle-legged wooden chair positioned center stage. From behind her back she pulled a crystal vase, the beveled edges in its surface glinting from the spotlight’s beam as if it had been fashioned from a thousand tiny diamond chips.

  She held up the vase and did a little skip and a dance across the stage, allowing the light to fracture through it as the music began to fade.

  “It was Socrates who said, ‘The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be.’” Wren placed the vase on the seat of the spindle chair as the band music eased off. “How many of us pretend here tonight? Certainly we all wish to live well. To live with honor while we’re in this world. So was our philosopher wise in his judgment? Or can we prove him misguided? Perhaps we’ll see if his conclusions were well placed.”

  A young girl appeared on the wings of Wren’s opening, a spotlight raining down on her as she seemed to float down the aisle, cutting through the dimmed light of the auditorium.

  She wore a day dress in childlike pink, as if the enchantment of spring had broken into their cold January world for a moment. She carried an oversized flower basket hooked under one elbow, the woven sea grass cradling a robust bouquet of peonies and roses in an array of bright pinks and rouge.

  Wren made a slight movement with her eyes and nodded, nudging the little girl on in whatever silent question she’d asked. “Children. Flowers. Do they pretend at all? Yes, they grow in beauty and grace. And all too soon, with the ebb and flow of seasons, they mature. Blooming into what they were meant to be. With no pretense. No masks. Just beauty in every honest bloom.”

  With her black Mary Janes dancing, the little girl waltzed about, deep-brown ringlets bobbing against her shoulders with each skipped step. She selected a single stem after another, curtsying to delighted ladies along the center aisle as she dropped a magnificent bloom in their opera-gloved hands.

  “And if cared for properly, if given light and room to grow, these beauties bring joy to all who come in contact with them,” Wren added, head high. “They defy Socrates’s definition of honor without thinking twice as to what they should be—only who and what they are.”

  The girl had gifted all of her blooms by the time she reached the front row. She gave an aristocratic curtsy to the press seated there and then skipped off into the shadows past the stage.

  “And so I ask you, dear guests. Are we only who we pretend to be? To each whom a flower has been given—are people as transparent as the bloom you now hold in your hands?” She gazed around, searching the crowd. “From whence does real beauty come? Is it in outward adornments? Or, rightly placed, does it grow from what is inside the measure of one’s heart?”

  Wren stood back from the vase, the transparent crystal bathed in the stream of light. “Grow,” she stated.

  Nothing happened.

  All was silent and still, save for the subtle hum of the band in the background and a light cough from somewhere in the depths of the audience.

  Wren played to the crowd, raising an eyebrow as if the vase had a personality all its own, and stubborn was what it wished to be at the moment. She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head to one side. She tapped her toe in mock perplexity while she waited
.

  A chorus of muted chuckles followed.

  “Grow,” she said, louder this time, resting her hands on her hips.

  The crowd watched, hushed, the few gifted with blooms twirling the flowers in their fingertips.

  The lot of them, Elliot included, sat on the edges of their seats with wonder at what the illusionist was poised to do with a lonely spindle-legged chair and an empty vase. Even Connor looked interested, which was a win in itself.

  Wren shrugged to the audience, as if the props hadn’t the inclination to cooperate on that night. She looked out over the crowd, her eyes searching. And finally, they landed on a spot offstage and she smiled brightly.

  She crooked her finger and waited until the sound of clip-clopping Mary Janes echoed against the hardwood of the stage. The little girl had returned and soon joined her under the stage lights.

  Wren knelt, cupping her hand to whisper in the little girl’s ear. The girl giggled and nodded as if whatever idea exchanged had been full of a fairy’s delights.

  The little girl walked over to the chair, then hesitated for the briefest of seconds to nibble the corner of her bottom lip. She then closed her eyes and leaned up on the tips of her toes, as if ready to wish, blowing air over the vase to extinguish the flame of imaginary candles.

  Wren nodded approval, then with feeling, whispered, “Grow.”

  The crowd gasped in awe. The little girl jumped and clapped as the depths of the empty vase burst forth with pops of color.

  Stems sprouted up, defying gravity and time with green shoots that reached for the grand heights of the Bijou’s ceiling. Leaves unfurled like delicate scrolls waking from slumber. Stems stretched into vines. And buds formed like miniature bells on a string, then burst into a song of color as flowers exploded, painting the mass of green in ivory and pinks. Crimson and coral.

  The flowers bloomed to the astonishment of the crowd.

  Wren looked on, as if the vines and their hidden beauty had performed well for her, just as she’d expected. She crossed the stage and picked up a pair of shears that had been set on the chair. She ran leather-gloved fingertips over the softness of the petals.